I met my killer and he’s so suicidal he’s afraid he won’t make it to my funeral. I wonder who’s the most important person in my life I haven’t met yet. Where am I?
Sometimes when I’m with you, I wonder how long it’ll be before I wake up. Do I think life owes me something? I’m not sure, though I feel there’s something people are not telling me – maybe something I’ve known longer than them (that I‘m fucked beyond this life). I can’t write – there’s no one to talk to. There’s the awful truth and the obviousness of the judgment you make of me.
I lie in bed and I can’t sleep, then wake up too late and miss my entire day. But no, I don’t want to go out, I don’t want visits, I don’t feel like anything at all. I’m aware of time and depression. I’m stuck in my body. There’s nothing wrong with me, but there’s nothing right either. Fuck you. And fuck me while you’re at it. Bla bla blah is all I hear. Static. I don’t want to engage in anything, but I don’t want to be left alone either.
Nothing is interesting enough and I get fatter everyday trying to fill the (w)hole. It’s 3:33am. You know what this means? Nothing. Shit. Yes, the meaning of life: it’s too fucking long and it’s over too fast. It’s creepy when you’ve got nothing to live for, not even a nice sentence to finish it all.